Thursday, 8 April 2010

'Negotiating with the Dead'

I got to thinking about walkmans today. I was listening to my iPod and thinking about how the battery just dies. Pop! That's it, charge me, biznatch! I felt pretty sad to think I'll probably never indulge in the disappointment that went hand in hand with the drawn out sound of a singer's lyrics as the batteries of a walkman squeezed their last morsel of energy into the slowing tape reels. It just made me sad when I thought about modernisation, that's all; just the modern world making people sad again, nothing new.

I was also thinking about how, sometimes, people sound as if they're speaking through a mouthful of peanut butter, you know? Now don't get me wrong, I love peanut butter; I really fucking love peanut butter, but I don't speak when I have it in my mouth, that's just not right. Maybe those people ought to try taking a sip of water every once in a while instead of forcing me to listen to the sound of them peeling their dry tongue from the roof of their fetid mouth every time they go to start a new sentence, especially since all I really want to listen to is the sound of my walkman batteries dying. But I'll never get that chance again because apparently walkmans don't have a place in our society unless we're speaking in terms of music-technology history (which we rarely are), or we're getting all "retro" and acting like the art fag scenesters who casually mention walkmans in their oh-so-quirky songs as though they use a walkman every single day of their lives. Really they should just face up to the fact that their songs are just a passing phase and have about as much staying power as a fucking walkman in this every evolving world we appear to live in.

Anyway, I bought a Reece's peanut butter egg while I was in America so I'll mostly be spending the weekend nibbling at that. And playing on my Wii. Because I recently bought a Wii and I'm currently working on my Sarah Connor biceps, so a spot of Wii Sports baseball will no doubt shape me right up.

Here's a poem I've been working on. Pretty much sums up children and encapsulates the general feel of this little life excerpt you have nowfinishedreadingtheend.

Little One

Let's play a game.
- You take my large hand
in your small sticky one.
Peanut Butter permeates the air.

Look. He gets him with this sword.
- We play at destroying lives
for almost an hour. Then
you have to use the toilet.

This man is going to be killed now.
- You speak in slow motion
to emulate a man dying,
and sound like a walkman,

(NB, If anyone reading this considers using any of my work, just don't. You'll die. Like a walkman. Believe me, you don't want your legacy to lie with the scenesters; they'll only hate you for it three days later. Plus my copywriting is fairly airtight.)

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