A head in the clouds is worth a torso on the slab

Ethan Switch - Thursday, 29 April 2010 - 23:56:06 - print it raw

Needles, dripping with chlorophyll, line up the edge of the table, stinking up the small room on the north terrace. Green? Plenty of it, and a whole shovel of browning autumn with it. The breach of nature in the dank room only serves to hide the setting pools of blood leaking away from the not-so adhesive bandages.

The court jester reads out the finding once more, with feeling: "Found fer crimes aginst the estabulaturry. With extreme predjys, we find this man, a man worthy a clean shave."

His, by which we mean, Renald Garrison, is a victim of a blunt epistolary, a conceit, a construct, of dressing an unseen reader with fine cloth made silk of wishes and dreams.

Visions splendid, but devastating to the manor born. Secrets and lies stand along the walls as the truth, stark naked, runs down the halls screaming bloody mary for a shot of gin.

The court jester stands behind him, sinks his fingers under the skin of the neck and rides his back like a horse rides a tortoise. Ungainly, wild and free of the reins. Hoof taps the shell and we're taking a right turn now. That's what you get when you don't knock twice.

You're not from around here anymore

The court jester breathes heavy and bites down onto Renald's ear as he whispers through his whistling teeth, "You only get one life. But I, I have many to play with. And your game ends here. Now."

Wiping his feet in the red that at first spurts then slips to drips, he drags his toes around and around and draws a line down the centre mark. Sprinkle the needles, which fresh is best?

No matter the manner the many men that fall on the second floor, it's three score and eleven centuries away. The court jester still cannot find a way to the Roof of the World.