I’m waiting to have five tiny, ill-placed teeth removed from my tiny five-year-old mouth with the aid of surgical pliers and a cylinder full of nitrous oxide. I’m waiting in a waiting room with my mother…”
by munter jack
This is what he does, does all, does all day. While I’m out working. This is what he does. Testicles. Scratches them, rubs them, pats them, on the arduous journey from bed to kettle. Fills it, plugs it in, flicks the switch. The kettle. Tea bag. Last tea bag in the box. A bit of milk. Last of the milk. Boiling water. Bread. Last two slices under the grill. While I’m out. While I’m out working all day. Takes a bath. Last of the bubble bath. Last of the soap. Last of the hot water. This is what he does. This is what he does all day. Every day. Scratching, rubbing, patting his testicles. While I’m at work. Smokes my cigarettes. Last pinch of tobacco. Last rizla. Has a shit or a wank or something. Last of the toilet roll. Says he’s a writer. “Writing a novel,” he says. Funny that. Pens. Drawer full. Paper. Reams of. Blank. This is what he does all day. While I’m out working.
I’m five years old and I’m waiting to have five tiny, ill-placed teeth removed from my tiny five-year-old mouth with the aid of surgical pliers and a cylinder full of nitrous oxide. I’m waiting in a waiting room with my mother. Waiting and watching a pregnant seahorse release a cluster of tiny translucent babies into a saltwater aquarium in the corner of the room. My mother tells me that the seahorse giving birth is male. Male. She explains that that is the way with seahorses. I’m in a large, black, leather chair, counting backwards from ten to zero, and I begin to imagine myself giving birth to a thousand tiny, translucent seahorses. When I wake up with a numb and bloody mouth, my mother is holding my hand and whispering gently, telling me that everything is going to be alright and that I’ve been a very brave boy indeed. I grin a woozy and terrifying gummy grin. Later, in the evening, I place five tiny teeth under my pillow. My mother tucks me into bed, kisses me on the head and says goodnight. And I fall asleep dreaming of seahorses.
Look at the face on it. Delivering the tinctures. Could be you in some hideous (counting down from ten to zero). In some. Imagine some hideous cunt up some hideous, up some hideous flats, waiting for the (drifting into the subconscious). Oh dear, no, no, oh my dear Lord, no. Saw it all when I did the estates. Walking the corridors, the stairs. Windows covered in shit. Doors. Oh my word, the smell. And they’d be there. Waiting for the tinctures. “Oh, doing the corridors are you? Come to do the corridors?” And I’d think, “Who are these cunts?”. Wouldn’t even notice if you put a knife through them. Wouldn’t even blink. Give the flat to you, give you, give someone like you a chance. Couldn’t we. Take the initiative. Clean it up for you. Clean up the corridors and the stairs. The floors. Get rid of the tinctures.
“Munter Jack (aka. The Fug) lives in Brighton, England. He has published a handful of chapbooks – “Oof It, Boof It, Boff, “Kinetic Meditation”, “Glitch”, Nitrous Oxide”, Donkeys”. He is also known to perform spoken word, as The Fug, in the London and Brighton area. Examples of his spoken word can be found at http://www.myspace.com/thefugspeaks. For more information about Munter Jack/The Fug contact: firstname.lastname@example.org