Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Musings of the speaker

These dogs won't take me. It's a swift scrape that snatches this one, I'll tell you. They've been growling around the damn solar panels all day, probably thinking I'd be down for water. What they can't detect can't be shredded to bits by them, I say. All it takes is a digital transmitter that reads landscaping, with a rerouter on the police frequency. The little friggers think there's no one around because they're 'seeing' a sensory recording of when you weren't there. You just gotta hope they don't snoop outside your transmitter radius. I'll give the authorities a week to figure out that little trick before the bastard hounds' programming is updated. Until then I'll be eating canned peaches and UHT cream, dearie.
We've been storing data on them for weeks. The dogs, I mean. I'm going to try to get a live one today with a program I bought off some haggard cleric from Oman with a cleft lip and a mole the size of a peanut hanging from his damn eyelid. I'll be the first to hope he's not a loyalist pawning off detection software to speaker-folk like me. The thing seemed solid anyway. Better well be, cost me two litres of oil and the plastic bottle to go with it. I've got plenty.
Here goes nothing...

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Saturday in.

It's like something romantic the day after. The potpourri is still in the tub, but careless euphoria circumvented whomever from cleaning the bathroom. A room full of the odious smells of stale beer and grounded smoke rather than the cheerful laughter and easy warmth of it's former occupants. Minor tragedy and subtle decay. The foolhardy drawing on the wall now winks a sinister grimace where it used to grin. Even the mundane contingent of dirty dishes, caked with dried up rice grains that were never quite finished, mock me. It's like the feeling that you should be home even though you don't have a telephone and nobody ever comes by.
That's what the taste in the back of my throat is like right now: Seedy, quite simply. It's a devil I know, though, so I take what comfort I can from it, like a loyal slave. The bakery didn't even fix it. Maybe I need a vacation from my own grumbly, hung-over self. A week of detox and a few gym sessions. Back to vegetarianism and non-smoking.