"'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."

-Peter Belmann-
 
 

"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."
 

-Adolf Hitler-
 
 

 "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."
 

-Jesus Christ-
 
 













Out_of Tune





                                                           by Samuel F. Tyldsley
 
 


Copyright 1949 by Samuel F. Tyldsley
First published in 1950 by Wilpman Books, Inc. St. Louis, MO

        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 from  And in the Dark
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

   "...and on these oft-plucked heart strings
  plays an aire of ill-wind borne-
  I, the tone-deaf minstrel;
  ever out of tune."

                                                 -Thomas Gorden
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

     "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 buddy. I'l...
     '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."
     'How now?'
     "We are but works of fiction, brought forth from void to fill this page. Surely you knew."
     'Bullshit.'
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                    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
                                                          thine anus.

          And likewise will I acquaint thy fist
                      with thy most inner reaches.
          I shall pounce upon thy brow
                       until thine eyes do meet
                                                          thine earlobes.
 

          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?
      Quite.
      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
                                                  of promises.
 

                             And yet you find
                                          my hidden soul;
                                                  untouched, unknown.
                             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.

                     Come sparrow,
                                  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,
                             perhaps,
                     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,
                                             of yours;

                      And likewise
                              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.
         That's true.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                             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,
                                           for me,
                      I see my yesterdays unfold;
                      For, that moment
                                which I live today
                      has past before me,
                                           yet unknown...

                       Only a moment ago,
                       when I thought I could hold you,
                       (close forever)
                       I wanted to touch you.
                       (would you feel it?)
                       I could have been happy
                       being lost...
                       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
                                       your love
                                                    was mine.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

         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?
         Certainly.
         I'm listening.
         Ignore it.
         Ignore it?!!
         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.
                                          Solid truths
                                                   wither to dust.

                                          But my love,
                                                   no matter
                                                   how old, how lost,
                                                   how cold,
                                                   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,

                             yet,
                                     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 itself?
             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 happy
                                         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.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 Hark,
 what sound hear I?
            The voice which hath so oft
                      caressed mine ears
                               and soothed my breast...

 She speaks...
 Alas,
         so cruel,
         and yet the kindness remains
         in the words that pass her tender lips,
 

 "Goodbye, my love- goodbye."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 You're stealing my lines.
 You said they weren't yours.
 I was using them.
 Not that one.
 Two, three, four...
 What are you doing?
 Just keeping things moving.
 In reverse, I think.
 Turn around, it'll be forward again.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                         Laugh, children,
                                                      See the grown-ups play.
                                         Watch them grasp for yesterday.
                                                      See them seek tomorrow
                                         amid their stagnant tears.
 

                                         Laugh, children,
                                                      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.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow
              has such an ugly face
 when the past hast lived too long
              and left no time for now.
 

 When one trades today,
              for memories of yesterday,
 how can 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.

 ...to create conversation...
                                                              I think I'll take a nap.
 ...for imaginary characters...
                                                              One, two, three, four...
 ...in order to fulfill a ...
                                                              Hey! That's not a sheep!
 ...momentary literary need...
                                                              I know a green buffalo...
 ...There was no other purpose..
                                                              when I see one...
 ...nor, indeed would we be...
                                                              That's it. I'm leaving.
 ...allowed to perceive...
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                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,
                           but unbounded,
                                      sourceless
                                                   light.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

         Awake!
         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 your throat?
         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 be bothered.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                     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

                                                    safe again.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 Warm her,
              gentle sun,
 and dry the tears in her eyes.
 It has been too long
              since e'er she felt
                       the innocence of sighs;
 
 

 That longing for things
              this world can never give,
 which may purge a soul
              and free a mind
 to rise above all earthly strife
              and stand anew
 before the sky,
              a child of stars.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

             What are you chewing on?
             Nevermind.
              I asked you not to...
             Nevermind.
              I'm gonna be sick
             Nevermind!
             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 for you?
             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 in.
             Aha! I knew you'd come around.
             Hey, that was your speech.
             We must be near the end.
              I want to go home.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

  How much longer, dear Lord,
              must I remain encased
              within this fragile shell?
 

 Free, yet hindered,
 mobile, yet bound.
 

 I see Your kingdom passing...
              I step forward...
                       and stub my toe.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

                             And dying prophets dream
                                                   only of the past;
                             Their vision,
                                              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.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 "Nevermore", quoth the raven.
 "Nor before", replied the dove,
 "but in thy weary bosom,
  and in thy waking dreams.

  For, there was ne'er more
  than you possess
  for thee to find
  along the way;

  And this you've gained
  from all who've gone before,

  and this 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.
         Where's that?
         I don't know.
         Maybe someone will read these pages.  Then we can do all that dialogue again, huh?
          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.
         Maybe.
         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.
         Forget it.
         If there is another side, I wonder what a cup of coffee costs.
 
 


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