Greedy Boy

I am greedy for the nectar of unconsciousness. Greedy, greedy, greedy – so horribly greedy! The very thought of that sweet nectar is enough to drive me mad with longing; I can taste it now, that wonderful, wonderful sweetness. If I were a poet I would write an ode to it but I’m not, unfortunately. My prose is lame, sadly inadequate for the task. It limps along pathetically, doing its best, doing whatever it can – gesticulating and gesturing in a manner that is game enough but ultimately inept. Idiot enthusiasm, I call it. But all the same, I can only reiterate that I’m greedy – so greedy – for the wonderful nectar of unconsciousness. Every cell of my body craves it, which is a phenomenon as I like to call ‘cellular craving’. Maybe I could call it ‘cellular crawling’ – every cell in my body is crawling as fast as they can manage towards the source of that terrible sweetness. Like slugs on the march. ‘When will we get there boys?’ cries out the lead cell, ‘when we can attain to the glory?’ Paradise is what we call that glory of course. The Paradise of the Lost; the Paradise of the Terminally Deluded. We’re looking for rapture. ‘Where will your soul spend eternity?’ asks the preacher man, looking into your eyes with a disconcerting intensity, ‘have you already made up your mind? Is your place in hell already decided?’ You feel like kicking over the little stall that he has by the roadside, scattering his piles of pamphlets all over the street. You’ve gone mad with longing at this stage – your normally composed features are writhing in a terrible mask of greed. You wouldn’t recognise herself in the mirror – you’d give yourself a nasty shock. ‘Is this is demon from hell?’ you ask yourself. Your own mother wouldn’t recognise you. You’re seeking unconsciousness of course and that’s the reason. There’s always some kind of reason and that’s it. You can’t get enough of it – you keep coming back for more. You keep coming back to the scene of the crime. You’ve been punished once but you want to be punished again. If you were a poet you could write an ode to it but you are not. All you can do is go down in your hands and knees and stick your whole head into the pot, swallowing down the filth inside it in great desperate gulps. You’re trying to absorb it through your skin, your ears; you’re sucking it up your nose in a series of convulsive snorts. You used to have friends of course – people actually liked you. Not any more though – they’ve all fallen by the wayside. They’re long gone now. There is only you and your terrible, terrible hunger. There is only you and your insatiable lust for the Nectar of Unconsciousness.

 

 

 

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *