Twitter, And The Poetry Of Arsepuke
Before I get into the Bum Vomit Poetry that inspired this post, here's why Twitter is awesome. I dont know if anyone's blogged about Twitter yet, or their feelings about it, so if this is too groundbreaking / pioneering, please take a few minutes to prepare yourself.
To best illustrate my changing relationship with Twitter, here is a conversation between 2009 me and 2008 me.
2008 Log: Twitter, I dont get it
2009 Log: That's because youre a fucking dick
Two weeks later
2008 Log: No hang on, I've thought of a reason now, it's a symptom of the pervasive whittling of thinks, the stupidification of humanity, the unstable egotism of anyone who can't keep a fucking thought to themselves
2009 Log: Oh yeah, I noticed they weren't making books any more, and every other communication channel has been legally limited to 140 characters, you fucking dick. And who's the cunt who thought it was worth telling the world that a he shit on his own dad?
2008 Log: That wasnt me, it was him
2007 Log: Dont bring me into this, I've never even heard of Twitter
With Twitter, I have watched my friends casually interact with celebrities, with my mouth right-angle agape. Like a dog who's watching some cats being naughty and wants to join in - but is too nervous about the possibility of human disapproval - I looked from the cats (my friends) to the humans (celebrities), and waited for the rolled-up newspapers to come out.
Then, when I saw the humans reach out and stroke (reply to) the playful kittens, I lost control and thundered in, sending ropes of drool flying up the walls. "IS ARDAL O'HANLON NICE, I BET HE'S A CUNT REALLY" I shrieked at Graham Linehan, in response to his link to a harrowing article about the Iranian Election. "WAS THAT MAN REALLY A PEEDO" I bellowed at Armando Iannuci, as he disclosed news of an arthritic toe.
So now, I'm fully in with the hip bunch, and it's all thanks to Twitter. And now, to my point.
Following back anyone who seems like they're a human, it's also introduced me to the poetry of a man called Mike. On Twitter, he's mikeisbrill, and when he used the phrase Carry On Wearing My Anus Like A Balaclava, I had to take ten minutes out of the day to imagine how the eyeholes in an anal balaclava would work.
Gouging out holes in the tract of a man wouldnt, obviously, help you see. Instead, it would allow the mans guts to press more directly against your eyes. If, gods spare us all, your eyes were open, the constricting pressure would prevent you closing them - your pupils swivelling helplessly against the liver of your host.
And then, theres the mouth-slot. A full anal balaclava, I'm fairly sure, would drive even a robust man to vomit. But that brought up its own set of logistical problems. Crafting a human anus into a gut balaclava, as desirable as that immediately sounds, is beginning to look like more trouble that its worth.
Sensing that there was unexplored beauty in this situation, I immediately demanded a poem - and that's exactly what I got. So, basically this is the longest link to a poem youll ever read.
THIS LINK WILL TAKE YOU TO A POEM YOU WILL LIKE
TweetBack-Dated Michael Jackson Blog Shows Staggering Empathy, Foresight
I'm a staggeringly sensitive person. I'm perfectly attuned to humanity, and the energy that human emotions transmit along the fibres of the universe. When someone is sad, their sadness consumes me - unless someone is standing between us laughing, in which case I'm struck by a serene sense of balance, and can resume shopping.
But when a force as powerful as Michael Jackson is suffering, it's like a spear landing in my chakra, and my response is an unearthly spiritual howl, a reality-shearing scream that cuts directly into the higher dimensions. You might have missed it: it's easy, when your mind is full of the nothing mush of the physical world, to not notice someone screaming in the sixth dimension.
This is why I stood outside, screaming. People need to know what is coming. I am the only one that knows Michael Jackson is going to die.
This is my vision: a shadow spreading over the Kingdom of Pop. A child's face in the sun, her tears extinguishing the flames. A suddenly-visible moon, presiding over the baronies and feifdoms of pop's subgenres, basked the peasants tending the paedofields in a ghastly unlight.
The world is coming apart, Pop is ending, and there's nothing we can do. It's already happened in my head, and you cannot change what has already happened (in my head).
I give him two days. And that Farah Fawcett looks like she's got a dicky tit, too
TweetLook At What I Overheard
I'm always hearing amazing conversations. Other people say they don't overhear any great conversations at all, so the only logical explanation is that my threatening presence makes everyone put in a bit of extra effort. It's certainly true that spikes of conversational excellence occur at that precise time I shake my fist, drop my trousers, and make huge snarling whoops. Take this conversation, that I overheard on the bus, this very morning.
Son: I hope this bus does a loop the loop
Mother: If it does, I'll park a tit on your leg
Bouyed by this warm cross-generational interchange, I disembarked and entered my regular morning newsagent. It is here, that I always cast my eye over the Pork Farms pasties. I imagine them in my mouth, and try to work out whether that would be a thing I'd be happy paying £1.79 for.
This is my benchmark of acceptability: every day that I decide not to buy and eat a Pork Farms pasty at 8:30am, is another day I have passed the human test. Imagine my surprise when I overheard this!
Customer: My hand's stuck in this bag of Monster Munch.
Shopkeeper: Have you tried taking it out?
Customer: Tried for a while, but now I quite like it. It's like a crunchy mitten.
Shopkeeper: A mitten... of monsters!
Customer: Yes!
Cheered immeasurably by this stolen banter, I wandered out of the shop, where I overheard a homeless gentleman trading bon mots with his carrier bag.
Man: Did I tell you about my time at the Danish Embassy?
The carrier bag billows out an unearthly gasp, and paisley swirls envelop the man.
Man: It was the grooviest year of my life.
The bag catches a gust of wind, and rockets into the stratosphere, where it is struck by lightning
Man: And I haven't stopped dancing yet!
The man snakes himself around a lamp-post, where he remains perfectly still, but for the wild muddling of a lazy, prehensile erection.
Even at work, the people around me have incredible conversations, which I overhear with overstated reaction shots. Cupping my hand to my ear, blinking six times and saying "whu-uuu?", or simply hooting like a maniac: everyone knows when I've overheard something, because I'm standing up, and repeating it word for word. This is a conversation that I'm overhearing right now. I'm piping directly from my ears to my fingers. It's coursing through me like cake batter, and you are my ovens.
Gelatinous Cube: Man, HR are being such dicks about this tribunal hearing.
Halfling: Dude, I heard about that. You shat out a skeleton soldier in the atrium lift?
Gelatinous Cube: Fuck, when you put it like that, of course it sounds bad. He came out as he went in. Undead.
Halfling: He says you shat the helmet into his face. He says you did it with such deft comic timing that it could only have been deliberate.
Gelatinous Cube: Haha! I totally did that. I thought "he's just done a double take and collected his thoughts, long enough has passed for everyone to think it's over, now's the time for a strong visual punchline". The Beholder cracked up, it was awesome.
Halfling: Don't come out with this shit at the tribunal, man.
Gelatinous Cube: You worry too much.
Halfling: You know what, I've always wondered why skeleton soldiers carry gold around. Why do the undead need money?
Gelatinous Cube: You still working on that open mic set?
Halfling: Fuck you.
That's all I've overheard today. If I hear anyone saying anything else, I promise you, you'll be the joint second to know.
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