‘Tis the season and all that shite. The softly drifting snow, the twilight’s gleaming, my love is somewhere dreaming of me in ways I don’t know.
Presents for them, but more for me, please. The tree, and food, and drinks. The sweet release from everything and everyone ordinary.
In other words, slush and freeze; shivering in jeans, a woman who doesn’t know enough to step up and say hey, come with me, or hello, I’ll be there soon.
Money spent and gone on things I can’t afford for me, the damn forest in the middle of the living-room. Food someone else made that looks good but tastes like a wino’s dream, and drinks as if we were bobbing for crapples on Halloween.
And then there’s my cousin, Harold.
A genial guy whom everyone, who isn’t busy hating or disseminating the squid ink of their own self-pity, can genuinely feel affection for. No false pride, not any particular twitch to score on anyone.
The only thing is Harold likes to be the nemesis to all, to be the one who either says or brings to light whatever might be uncomfartable for all.
The other night, Aunt Biddy was telling him, ‘Well, Harold, have you found yourself a good woman, yet?‘ And Harold of course had to say, ‘No, but I’m making progress towards building one. I have a couple who have just the right parts, but just don’t fit together. You know they say seen one, seen’m both, but can’t make them wear tattoos, have piercings, or dress up in leather.’
Harold had pretty much been gobbling all the food he could handle, hoovering down like it was going to melt and disappear the minute it hit the plate, so he resumed munching his way through the yuletide feedbag.
That was ok with Uncle Dumpy, but anti Biddy, did not appreciate Harold’s enjoyment and thought he ought to proceed as if he were perched upon an imminent colostomy.
Shades of John Keats!
‘Harold! Can’t you have some manners! Doesn’t this season make you want to be popular, to have lots of friends surrounding you, to have them all wanting to see you, impatient to know how you’re doing, to have them lined up at your door?’
Harold, of course, took this opportunity to politely inquire of Aunt Biddy, ‘You mean like a prostituti?’
Auntie dropped one of her two drumsticks and was about to recover when Harold tucked his chin in and processed some of the finely seasoned swill he’d gotten down so far.
She looked at me, who for once wasn’t thinking about various self-congratulatory names for my huge throbber, and said, ‘What the hell was that!’
Joy to the world? I replied.
At which point, Harold decided to join the party and buzz-sawed his arrival in the form of a loud and raucous fart.
It’s in the bible, Auntie, I said. Make a joyful noise.
Harold’s spirit got the best of him then, and he asked Aunt Biddy, hey Auntie, what’s brown and sounds like a bell? Dung!
By this time, Uncle Dumpy was laughing so much he spilled some of next week’s leftovers onto his chest. Harold, having consumed more than enough, took one look, flushed, and proceeded to honk out his evenings’ consumption as he fell over the couch trying to run for the porcelain altar.
I was only laughing but that caused the food to rise in a hasty process, and I simultaneously blew gas and arked upward like a demented choirboy causing the outraged Aunt Biddy to demand again: ‘Jesus, what the hell was that!’
Duet? I asked.
She looked like she had a stone’s worth of something that needed processing herself with the frown and pursed lips; pointing to Harold sprawled over the couch arm and twilight zoning a look at me, she squealed, You! And him! What is this!
Arp, the Harold angels sing, Auntie. It’s the real Christmas.
- “Dean’s books will someday be required reading for anyone who studies literature, poetry, or, human artistry.”
- “Having read Dark Earth by Dean J Baker my first reaction is WOW. This was written for me.
His poetry speaks to me deep down in my soul.”
- my books – http://www.amazon.com/Dean-J.-Baker/e/B00IC6PGQM
- Best Review of DARK EARTH
- join me here – https://www.facebook.com/DeanJBaker