It starts with a golden fish named Bismillah
A vignette from my archive of fiction writing. The title is misleading. There is no fish named Bismillah, so how could it be golden?
Do not index
Do not index
About the Collection: The Lunacies of a Raving Prophet
I used to write poetry and vignettes between 2006-15. I can’t say if any of them relates to my life, but I can say that they are deeply personal.
A phrase I once used to make sense of it is ‘Furious monkeys in braindance’.
During the earlier parts of that period, I read some of the works of Camus, Sartre, Kerouac, Burroughs, Bukowski, and Jim Morrison (his poetry). They had an influence on my writing style and, perhaps, what I wrote.
There is no purpose to this collection other than to derive pleasure from reading it.
Written On: Sep 20, 2012
A Sunday of treasure began with a strong dose of coffee. The mind was starting to imagine stark naked monkeys dancing to the mad sounds of Faust's 'Why don't you eat carrots?' as it stumbled over a hallucinatory path of sleep deprivation. I couldn't concentrate on the task at hand. I couldn't remember the task at hand. Did I actually have a task? Or a hand? I couldn't understand. I was slowly getting lost in the blend of reality and fiction that my brain had slowly started to manufacture second by second. My vision started to blur as I started to see the images in my brain. Microsleeps slipped in between wakening. Microdreams manufactured memories that timestamped themselves to weeks before it all began.
I don't know how it began. There are too many clouds floating in my head for the sun to shine through. My eyes are deceiving me. My ears are not here. My nose smells something fishy and my tongue tastes irrationality in the air and blurts monosyllabic sounds.
The two pigs approached me on two feet. Their snouts were moist pink and sniffling in the warm sun, trying to pick a scent of my trail of thought. They stood about 10 feet away as they plotted their next move. I was cornered. I didn't like pigs. They ate anything. Didn't mind getting dirty. But worst of all, they were fat, overweight bastards with wet snouts that nuzzled you for tidbits and when none was forthcoming, they bit off your fingers.
I reached into my pocket for treats but could only conjure up a few scraps of paper. Bus tickets. They were settling for nothing. As they edged toward me, I froze for a moment before I started stepping backward. Very soon, I found myself close to the 15-foot brick wall at the end of the alley. There was no getting away from the pigs. When they march, you can only take orders. You cannot stop a pig. The pig stops you. The pig is the man, the man is the puny rat. The rats, well, they are the super rats feeding off everyone else.
As my back hit the wall, I realized there was nothing I could do. The pigs closed down, now within 3 feet way. I could smell them, the stench of decay was nauseating. I wanted to bend over and retch, but I swallowed my vomit. The pig love puke. They live for the sights and sounds of an individual heaving their guts on the pavement. They lived off your disgorgement and reveled in your excretion. Pigs, eating their way from one meal to another. Pigs...as they grabbed hold of me by the collar. Pigs....as they forced their hooves into my emaciated stomach. Pigs...as they tossed me to one another as if I were a lone puppy left to fend for myself in a pigsty. Pigs....as they let their horns slice through my stomach. Pigs.....as they ripped out my intestine and forced it down my throat. Pigs.......as they tried to make me shit in my own mouth. Pigs....as they sliced off my toes and fingers. Pigs. Pigs. Pigs. Orgasmed their half an hour at my expense. Pigs, leaving me to bleed and plead before the hungry young rats who peered out from behind the garbage. Pigs, who shouldn't have had the power that they do. Pigs, always poking their snout where it's not wanted. Pigs....small tail that never goes straight.