"Blaow!" said the shotgun. And said the shotgun again. Once more into the heat of the night. A chatty one at that. To the teeth, gasps and huffing soon follow. The exhaustion not apparent. Ready for more on this side of the argument.
Its master strokes the blackened shaft and rubs its sleek body, before cooing then cracking its neck. Reload. Another breath to take as the typewriter stares back, dumb. Unable to utter a single word, letter or space out any kind of rebuttal. Its teeth in broken glyphs, jammed and jagged in the walls, ceiling and floors.
Skipping goes "How I wrote 'Elastic Man'" with a skint of the letter B kicking disgust and lamentation into the player. (Or the number 3. Maybe it even an 8 done with a fraction of a mathematical tomfoolery.)
The soundtrack of despair, of revelling in the past and riffing on getting the interpretation wrong. Or the homage. Melancholy is afoot, and it's got no sole. At least where the promise of progress is involved.
Totally wired with a bottle of lyme and a dash of rum. Screeching now to the same thing over and over again with the "Prole Art Threat" making misery and short work of the night.
"Don't care," said he of the smoking gun. Crossing between the art of making and the making of art. Situation normal, all fine thank you very much.
"I enjoy The Fall," taunts the loaded weapon. "Interpretations are valid, wanted, needed." Out comes a sigh, of resignation, and with a loud decibel casting splatter work across the ceiling proper. "Technicalities, not so much."
Written on Sunday, 10 April 2011