Matador of the Brutes and the Bitches at Witley Park


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Transcript

WELCOME! Dear sirs and ladies all,

To My PARAMOUNTAIN, My stately hall!

Marvel at My Olympian airs, titans, hark!

The bliss is better than birdsong here at Witley Park!

Please help yourselves to a flute of booze,

Have one of My brutes shine your shoes!

Shall we take a stroll through My AWFUL grounds?

Have a truffle, but please, don’t feed the hounds!

Gander, if you’ve the stomach, at My wretches and My witches,

They dance to MY spell, I am Matador of the brutes and the bitches!

 

I was at this house party once. I was wavy on tequila and I’d smoked a lot, and I was in this back yard, mangled in a squash of chatty pissed people. The bitter stink off the hissing coals from the barbeque made me heavy and slow, it clung to my hair and pulled impatiently at my rings and my shoes and my bra and my bobbles. Or maybe it was just cos there was too many people. I hate being in crowds man I just want to be on me own most of the time. But everyone was dancing, so I danced.

The music was very fucking charming, bongos with a flute or a trombone or a trumpet or something, I dunno. Fuck knows.

I got with this lad, but he cried while I sucked off his tongue. I just kept going like I didn’t give a fuck that he was crying, to be honest I thought it was pretty fucking rude actually. I’m not that bad, am I? How are you not supposed to take that as an insult?

I fucking hate house parties man. Is this what it fucking feels like to be free?

 

See how I lead them insensible by the nose,

See how, for Me, they kneel in obedient pose,

Look how they ripple with lean, muscular meat!

LO, too shamed! AHA! to look up from their feet!

Peak, if you dare, at their steely lightening eye,

‘Twould unnerve, were it not, PATHETIC, so prone to cry!

Uncertain fear entombs their voice of thunder,

HA! if they knew, ‘twould break our loft asunder!

Passive behemoths, your Nature-borne pride is spent by dignity undone,

Pliable provincials of County Durham, ‘tis no sport if you are so easily won!

 

There were once two birds, in two gardens.

Now these were not the kind of gardens in which neighbours lean over fences and chat about the weather or jobs or politics or sports or anniversaries, not the kind of gardens in which you’d find sheds or greenhouses or swing sets or barbeques or patio furniture. These gardens were stretched out, narrow and wavy, like a river. Each garden was the exact length that would take half a lifetime to cross, and a revolving pine tree separated the two gardens, a tree so tall that the clouds would mix and wrap around the pointed tip, like melted marshmallow around a stirring spoon.

The birds were magpies. They would run up and down their respective plains with their hands behind their backs. One, scurrying with its head craned low, would hunt in the grass that was buzzing and teeming with flies, bouncing with noisy life, for shiny things. The other would stride tall with its beak up in the air, gazing at the stars from tranquil, breezy flowerbeds, gently humming with bumbling bees.

You see, though they flowed in the same direction, the two gardens were very different. A cold, harsh sunlight blared down on one, conjuring whispering shadows of the buzzy, busy little flies in the grass. A warm, dreamy evening danced through the other, balming the roses until they put to bed their eyes and sang hypnotic old songs.

And one day, a magpie called

“Will I find, in that garden, shinier shiny things?

Will I find one last treasure to crown us all kings?”

And one night, a magpie called

“Will I see, in that garden, one almighty star?

Will I see a nova that knows what we are?”

The two magpies, with wonder and desire boiling in their souls, began weaving deftly across the plains. Every motion of their bodies was grace as they ran, with their hands behind their backs, to the traverse tree. They fluttered their wings together, and their black and white bodies raged against the fatherly wind as they leapt into the twisting vanilla air. To the top of the tree they fought, until they could fight no more and rested on branches at the crown of the sky.

Approaching the trunk that they both shared, on that day and night, the reflections noticed each other for the first time. Apprehensive at first, they admired in each other a blue that sparked across their wings. It was only noticeable when they allowed themselves to get close to each other, and when each bird saw it in the mirror, they recognised it in themselves. It was lucid and vital amongst the black and the white. Electric. True blue. Life as a feather.

Spellbound as they were, each bird was swallowed by the current of their hunger. They leapt from those branches to breach the threshold into the alluring gardens beyond, but the tree span with too much power for their smallness, and each was swept back down into their own world. Both birds gazed up at the tree with their feet in the roots. Together, they called

“It is what it is!”

They didn’t necessarily agree with the words that had just left their beaks, but they felt it was accurate for the time being. They returned to their homes, both thoughtful of the other bird, and pleased to have met, if even for such a brief memory.

That night, a magpie sang fresh, wiser songs with attentive roses.

That day, a magpie basked in the sun, feeling frosty needles pulling it together at the seams.

 

I like to whip and kick and nip and stick their beastly frame,

And I laugh til I VOMIT at their wrath; misdirected blame!

HAHAR! Blind bitches, you foolish, feral bastards!

You punish your fellows, not your tormenting dastards!

I like to whisper poison inside their ears,

I like to fan the fires that boils their fears,

Because I hate their passion, I hate their soul!

I hate to hear them laugh without exacting a toll!

Sometimes I SMILE watching them slave on My estate,

But sometimes I itch to butcher them, the filthy fucking ingrates.

 

I would say I am an angry man, yes.

Put it this way, I feel personally attacked by the wind and the rain, and when I feel like objects are being smart cunts, I pummel them with both my fists and cry.

 

Sometimes I like to invite them, in their dirty skirts and disgusting suits,

To join me for dinner! HAHAHA those thick bitches and vapid brutes,

They ask me “But Sire, where are our seats at the table?”

My table? Dear beasts, do you live in fantasy? Is this a fable?

There will be NO place at the table for savages or beasts!

You’ve no wit to offer, nor the palette for My feasts.

So instead, I make them stand and watch Me eat!

I chew with My mouth open so they can listen to My meat!

When the fancy takes Me, I have them recite their base tales,

It is a pretty, pleasing note, the melancholy of the Dales!

 

Once, running for a rounders ball in the school yard, I slipped on thick ice and cracked me face open. I lost half me teeth, a chunk of me upper lip and an eyeball that the gravel chewed up.

Once, running for a bus, me mother slipped on packed ice and broke her spine. The pain made her cry, and every sob was agony. She was laid on the pavement for hours. After they’d washed away all the blood and the piss and the shit, they scanned her and found her innards riddled with malignance. They scooped her out, and now she doesn’t walk or shower or go to the toilet.

Once, walking the dog, me grandfather slipped on black ice and shattered his hip. Like marbles his bones scattered across the road, and he shouted for help until a tractor crushed him. The dog disappeared into the hills.

Why are our bodies worth less than salt?

 

What larks! But alas! I would be remiss in My duties as your host,

Were I not to show you the best that Whitley Park has to boast!

An underwater ballroom! See where the creatures have danced!

The watery world beyond keeps My curious beasts entranced.

Watch how quickly they fall in line! My piggy doggy jig hogs,

When I call “Who wants to play BRITISH BULLDOGS?”

They bite and they tear and they rip, bark and squeal,

Watch them eat each other alive! A kinsman meal!

AND THE GLASS CEILING WILL BREAK, THEY WILL BE BURIED BY THE WATER

THE DEADWEIGHT WILL CRUSH THEM, THEY WILL DIE BY BLUE SLAUGHTER!

 

Me mam’s husband had mining eyes. The black dust got stuck so deep in the folds of his skin, he always looked like he was wearing mascara. When he blinked his thick lashes swished, and one day me mam picked one off his face and held it between a finger and a thumb in front of his lips.

“Make a wish, flower”, she whispered, with tears boiling her eyes.


Written in response to Prison Amusements, by Thomas Jonathon Young, York, 16th May 2018.