"'Out of Tuna' would, in my opinion,
be a more fitting title for this volume. This would perhaps restrict
its readership to lovers of seafood. A worthwhile process, I think,
for I found any merit in this work to be a red herring and too slippery
to be captured by this reader."
"The frequent stylistic changes together
with a blatant disregard for standard grammatical practices and a general
lack of continuity render this work nearly illegible to the educated eye
and incomprehensible to the intelligent mind."
"If this work does have a redeeming
quality it is that it may spare us from further works by the author.
The literary world would be much better off if he would trade his pen for
a fishing pole and annoy us no longer with his self- indulgent rambling."
by Samuel F. Tyldsley
Copyright 1949 by Samuel F. Tyldsley
The song playing
is Pink Floyd's "Echoes" by Waters, Wright, Mason and Gilmour, published
in 1971 by TRO-Hampshire House Publishing Corp. It was downloaded
in the Dark
First published in 1950 by Wilpman Books, Inc. St. Louis,
"...and on these oft-plucked heart strings
an aire of ill-wind borne-
out of tune."
"Friend! "Tis good to see thee!"
'Of that I am less than certain. Hast thou my twenty quid?'
"Sorry kid, I'm all tapped-out. Next week, for sure. I wouldn't stiff a
'What mode of speech is this? Art thou bewitched?'
"A fie upon my tongue!"
'And upon thy scribe as well.'
"Methinks it but a slip of the quill, which doth betray its origin; For,
while foulness acquired may be o'ercome, to nature's realm we must return."
'Thou speakest strange, no matter the words ye choose.'
"No matter indeed, I say to thee, why should words be more?"
'Words capture essence, while deeds encompass circumstances.'
"'Tis clear thy words circumpass all substance."
'As do thy deeds.'
"So saith thy words, writ by stranger's hand."
"We are but works of fiction, brought forth from void to fill this page.
Surely you knew."
Take this my meager offering;
make it worthy
in thine eyes.
Take these my calloused hands;
make them tender
by thy touch.
Stir my basest feelings,
warm my frigid flesh;
But ask me naught of passions
that dwell not in my breast.
You ask for my word
as though it were bond
that could bind the world to my will...
How could I promise to be here;
promise to be near you
as fate calls me away?
If wishing made it so,
I'd be in love with you.
If longing made it true,
as sage I would be worthy;
But dreams are
of another world
and fantasy too often dies by morning.
Who doth beat upon my door
upon this godless hour,
and stirs my blood
upon this hallowed morn?
Methinks that I shall meet thee hence
and kick thy testicles up through
And likewise will I acquaint thy fist
with thy most inner reaches.
I shall pounce upon thy brow
until thine eyes do meet
And thy heart shall be my breakfast,
thou unworthy motherfucker.
"Do not thy words betray the fact?"
'Not one wit.'
"That is what I tell thee. Thou hast not the faculties to take control.."
'Of mine own speech?!'
"Nay, of thine existence at all."
'Seek help, my friend, you are not normal.'
What is normal?
Normal is the mean average of the expectations of the many.
Am I mad?
It is well. For sane men ne'er know their tomorrows for their yesterday,
to the mad, they are the same. Hence time can be no burden.
Note ye now, how madmen murmur or rant and rave beyond the clock. We ne'er
know when sense is lacking, for in the lacking sense is found.
Volume is not sincerity, nor conviction honesty.
I say these words are not mine own. To their number or their meaning I
make no claims.
Whence then, do they come?
The devil, surely, or at least, his inspired villain.
A most verbose villain, that is clear.
Aye, but I'll befuddle him. I shall speak no more.
What matter if you say
you love me,
as oft you've said before?
For I've known love
and seen it die
within a cage
And yet you find
my hidden soul;
You stir my very essence...
What ten thousand men
could never conquer,
you rule with but a glance.
Come my robin,
sing sweetly for me;
My voice is feeble,
though bright my soul.
fly high for me;
My feet well planted,
my spirit soars.
Darker days I've known too well
to shine beyond these clouds;
Sun shine brightly for me.
If I had a song,
I'd find voice;
and with this voice
I'd touch thy heart,
and bring thee joy
thou hast ne'er known...
And well I know
thou could not else but sing
this song of mine,
all would sing
and free their hearts
from petty cares;
and I their purses
from petty cash.
Why must thou delude thyself with such fantasies? Doth not life provide
thee enough with diversion?
Aye, of that there is aplenty.
Yer soundin' blue.
Hey! That's my gig!
Sorry. Thou speakests as though melancholy.
Forsooth, I am, for one so fair I know not if she be real.
What is this? I know full well thou art two-faced, but this is a side I
have not seen. I warn thee, if this is a ploy to pick my purse, I have
not a farthing to...
A trick I wish it were. Far better my lot if I were as cold as thou
perceivests. I cou_ Why smirkests thou?!
Forgive me, friend, my incredulity. I only doubt that mortal maid could
have such power o'er thee.
Said I not that she is mortal. She shall always live. Death
but flaunts her glory. Time cannot betray her.
Of whom, then, do we speak? Art she fair Athena?
Nay, Athena doth bow down before her, as do all gods and goddesses.
Who is it then? What be her name?
Many names has she, but by the one we know her best; I speak of Truth.
And I thought thee spoke of love for woman.
Truth is more important than love, and more the beauty.
But love is truth.
Then truth is more important than truth.
How can it be?
But I love truth.
But love is not so important.
Sitting on a park bench,
I scrape the lies
from 'neath my shoes,
and wonder why
after all these years
I think of you.
Beyond this time,
I see my yesterdays unfold;
For, that moment
which I live today
has past before me,
Only a moment ago,
when I thought I could hold you,
I wanted to touch you.
(would you feel it?)
I could have been happy
only a moment ago.
On a calm October evening,
with my back against
a cold brick wall,
I suddenly feel peaceful;
a long journey's end.
On a calm October evening,
we marveled at the moon;
It seemed to shine on us a light
reflected from our hearts.
That fractured man
I was before, seemed
of a sudden vanished...
On a calm October evening
when you said
But how do you know just what is true?
It's not my problem.
What do you mean, it's not your problem?
I'm not writing this.
Oh shit, are you gonna start that again?
Look, if you can postulate a separate existence for truth which is independent
of environment, then I don't see why you do not concede that it can only
be sought from outside its own realm. Otherwise it is already acquired.
We are thus forced to live in a lie, as we are outside truth's realm. We
must be, if we have need to seek it. Therefore, your separate truth
is quite irrelevant to our circumstance.
Making a lie universal does not vindicate it.
No, and the search for truth is the greatest lie of all. If any self-righteous
pilgrim ever found truth he wouldn't know what to do with it.
And you would, I suppose?
Of course, what else could one do?
In awe I stand
before this glass,
for it reflects
not what I've seen,
nor truth as I have known it.
But cruelest travesty
returns my gaze.
My faulty dreams
collapse about me.
Once strong hopes
decay and fall.
wither to dust.
But my love,
how old, how lost,
will last forever.
If truth, as you have described it, is alien to our natural existence,
it has become the lie and should be scorned as the most malicious gossip.
I feel like I'm talking to a senile old woman.
Perhaps you are. I'll not argue the point.
There are more holes in your logic than there are in cheesecloth.
You have beautiful eyes.
Don't evade the...
They'd make lovely paperweights.
I remember songs we sang together,
and sunshine in your eyes.
I recall your touch,
and feel your lips
caress my weary brow.
I dream of walks...
and laughter in the rain.
Nights of passion,
days of joy
stay fresh within my memory,
your name escapes me
at this time.
Is there, then, no truth?
Ah, that may be true.
But you just...
I refute the relevancy of your objective truth. Yet one cannot deny that
we each deal with our subjective truths always.
But can mere perception be called truth when it is often contradicted by
Again, poor chap, you are grasping for eternity.
Because your truth would die, or in fact, never live for any
but you, you
would deny it ever was.
Truths are as fleeting as the blinking of an eye and as troublesome as
tears, which blur our vision.
Surely, you're not saying man is incapable of lies or errors. If each perception
of each moment is true, all action can be justified by the noble cause
of expounding truth.
That, my friend, is where man errs. It is the act of embellishing truth
which leads to fallacy. Making personal truth universal or temporary
truth eternal is merely vanity, which is always a lie.
Then is prolonged emotion, such as love, a falsehood?
Perceptions change with time, though our reactions may not. Eternal love
is a fantasy, while immediate happiness is not.
You have beautiful eyes...
May you always be
as I feel when I'm with you.
May you never
know the sorrow
I feel each time we part.
Would I were a god,
eternal as the wind,
then, all time in my possession
would I spend with thee.
sound hear I?
The voice which hath so oft
caressed mine ears
and soothed my breast...
and yet the kindness remains
in the words that pass her tender lips,
my love- goodbye."
stealing my lines.
they weren't yours.
are you doing?
keeping things moving.
around, it'll be forward again.
See the grown-ups play.
Watch them grasp for yesterday.
See them seek tomorrow
amid their stagnant tears.
for they have learned
what's best forgotten...
and you will do the same,
and wake from all your dreams.
But laugh, children,
if just for today,
for you know as well as anyone
just what is real,
and what's a game
to be done tomorrow.
I'll walk along
perhaps a while ere I leave
the dampness of this stormy eve.
For, in this rain
I weep not alone,
as heaven shares my tears
and darkness holds me close.
I'll not trade
life for mourning,
nor day for night...
yet, I pause
to purge my grief
and leave no bitterness
to haunt my joy tomorrow.
and tomorrow and tomorrow
has such an ugly face
the past hast lived too long
and left no time for now.
for memories of yesterday,
one face tomorrow?
Oh please, don't give me that perception shit again.
But, dear boy, what else is there?
There is life, "dear boy", and if you would try living it instead of thinking
about it you might not waste my time with your dribble.
And I suppose you have better things to do?
Chewing on live rats would be an improvement.
My fine fellow, you wouldn't exist if it weren't for this dribble. And
as for your rat-chewing fetish, as yet we have none and I would appreciate
your not bringing up the topic for consideration.
Holy gripshit! If you're going back to page one, I still want my money.
Your money, dear friend, has never existed.
It did when I had it.
But you never did. It was merely a device...
Here we go.
I think I'll take a nap.
One, two, three, four...
order to fulfill a ...
Hey! That's not a sheep!
I know a green buffalo...
was no other purpose..
when I see one...
indeed would we be...
That's it. I'm leaving.
The voices soar
above my ears
to a place beyond my mind;
and, though I hear
all your words,
they no longer touch me.
My vision fades,
from my eyes
to the wall
to the space between.
Though I know
I have more to say,
my tongue lies still,
my eyelids close,
and I have gone.
Take me home
to endless void.
My soul yearns
to know once again
the freedom of emptiness
the peace of solitude,
the beauty of innocence...
Amid this cloud
I make my way,
confused not in darkness,
Oh no, not this nightmare again.
How long would'st thou have me speak alone?
As opposed to more speakers or fewer words?
I approve no more so than thyself, but thou art party to this frivolity
and I will play the fool no more than need be.
But you play it so well.
And what, perchance, doest thou well?
Who are you, anyway, Shakespeare's grandfather? Or is something wrong with
You're no fun anymore.
You woke me up.
I assure you, the exclamation point was not mine. I would have whispered.
Did you dream?
I think so, why?
I think it is interesting that a fictional character should dream. There
is no reality from which to escape, at least it is inaccessible.
I do not see the point.
Thou doth not see the glass before thy face?
Okay grandad, what did you dream?
I dreamt of a night when I would not be woken and a day when I would not
Sleep tight, my darling,
this day hath sweetly gone.
May with it go all worries,
that sleep may hold no tears.
May dreams abound
and bliss no more forsake thee.
Let night fulfill
what days ne'er vow.
And when the morrow wake thee,
may love lie at thy side
and grant thee strength
'til dreams may hold thee
the tears in her eyes.
been too long
since e'er she felt
the innocence of sighs;
this world can never give,
may purge a soul
and free a mind
above all earthly strife
and stand anew
a child of stars.
What are you chewing on?
I asked you not to...
I'm gonna be sick
How the same writer who creates such a character as I can allow an imbecile,
such as yourself, to run amok through these pages is beyond me.
Well I'm bored. You get all the silly speeches. I just repeat your lines
with an occasional "what" or "bullshit" and so forth.
Thou hast ne'er uttered "so forth".
Don't do that shit.
You seem preoccupied with defecation. Was toilet training too traumatic
According to you, I never had any. I didn't exist until a few pages ago
and I haven't had time to go to the toilet, at least it hasn't been written
Aha! I knew you'd come around.
Hey, that was your speech.
We must be near the end.
I want to go home.
longer, dear Lord,
must I remain encased
within this fragile shell?
Your kingdom passing...
I step forward...
and stub my toe.
And dying prophets dream
only of the past;
only love they've lost.
For, in their glory
they could not give
what would not be taken,
and knowing of the future
they could not change it.
Hast thou naught else to say?
Void doth not distress me.
Void is death, for not to be known is not to be.
Then surely, dead am I who is but known by who created me?
If thou art dead, why art thou before me?
Methinks thou must be dead also.
But how could I be, when all is as it was before?
I conjecture, we choose our death with our last living thoughts.
What say you, Death holds but what we wish?
Nay, it holds but our beliefs. If we believe not our wishes, then
wishes be they only.
If I, then, believe I'm God, God, then will I be?
If delusion doth pervade thy life, then so it will thy death.
But my delusion shall not be reality?
Reality is only what we know.
And so I rule my death, but touch no other?
Aye, in death as in thy life ye choose thy path, let none other choose
it for thee.
quoth the raven.
before", replied the dove,
in thy weary bosom,
in thy waking dreams.
there was ne'er more
thee to find
all who've gone before,
you'll leave for all who follow."
So, this is it, eh?
Yeah, I guess so. This is the end.
Well, what will happen to us now?
I suppose we'll go back to where we were.
I don't know.
Maybe someone will read these pages. Then we can do all that dialogue
I doubt it.
Then there's nothing?
There're no more pages.
None that we can see. But maybe there's another side that we can't see.
I suppose we'd better say goodbye in case there isn't.
Take care of yourself, if you exist anymore.
Yeah, you too.
Sorry about the money.
If there is another side, I wonder what a cup of coffee costs.
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