I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library- Jorge Borges

Friday, 26 November 2010

The Dentist

I completed my sixth and greatest Sonata four months ago. It will be performed by Vienna’s most regarded pianist, and I look forward to that with infallible joy. What inspires me is a question I have been asked repeatedly, but the truth could lay my success open to great perils. So I will leave the truth enamelled to assumption.  And tell only you.

I am dentist by profession, but a composer by default.

I discovered the slenderness of her neck as her head tilted back, her alabaster skin brought out a dewy pinkness in her lips, as they open from bud to bloom. The music followed. Every tooth had a letter assigned to it, A, B, C, D, E, F, G. Letter G landed soulfully on her molar, her canine was distinctly F sharp, and the piece ended exquisitely on high C, upper incisor.

I have saved a few select casts from the most instrumental mouths. Placing them on my baroque mantelpiece and depending on my company they pass as contemporary art. Often, upon catching sight of my ornamental teeth the tips of my fingers tingle, and arch up eagerly to play the teeth like the keys of a piano. Of late Debussy has been thoroughly enjoyed.

One of my most well received Sonatas came from a set of short, tightly screwed teeth. They weren’t by any means lacquered with a Hollywood gleam, but their gritty strength made way for an effective staccato.

Braces have the power to change the melody of the mouth; they cause a transformation from the disjointed to the sublime.

Monday, 15 November 2010


I twirl my fingers
Through your brown, greying hair.
Moisturising my tips
With the oil from your scalp.

I tease myself onto your lap,
Open your hand and admire
The thick veins on your wrist.
The television consumes you.
Trickles of lah lah lah.
Irritate my ears.

Tuesday, 9 November 2010

Foie Gras

''I’ve got to get her back, you listening? I’ve got to get her back!’’

My consciousness flickers, becoming momentarily aware I’m being spoken to, so I mumble threatening obscenities, exerting as little energy as possible in hope of returning back to sleep.

My roommate Karl begins to irritate me further, ''Mate, I saw Lorna, walking with some dirty ass cockroach of a guy, no way can she be seeing him, has to be her friend!''

''Your attempts will be all in vain, I’ve heard some guy from Oxford got his hands on her during the summer, it’s probably the cockroach you’re speaking of.'' I was never one to beat around the bush.

''Pffff, she loved me, and I didn’t finish with her in a nasty way, I never said anything bad to her'' Karl protested, but his voiced sounded fairly uncertain.

''It’s not what you say, it’s what you do that can hurt Karl.'' I stared at him with one eye, whilst my other tried to preserve sleep, but he just kept silent, letting his reflective grimace tell me to shut up. Which pleased me fine.

Karl had been seeing Lorna for most of the second year at uni, but broke it off when she started getting clingy. They didn’t match anyhow, Karl was an arty guy, cigarette always flapping from his bottom lip, and he talked about art like the media talked about celebrity. And he constantly wore yesterday’s clothes. Not that he was lazy, but rather, maintaining personal hygiene came far down on the list. Whereas Lorna, I saw as being a square, a pretty one though.

I met Karl, in our first year of uni, we had both joined the Literature society, and that’s where he met Lorna too. I remembered him because he called me Michael straight after I had told him my name was Miguel. I tried to have a conversation with Lorna that same day too, about poetry, I shared my liking for Ginsberg, and she replied that his political and social voice was vulgar. I gritted my teeth at that pompous, little remark. And when she gushed about Sylvia Plath I groaned,

''I got half way through that, and went looking for a rope and stairs'' which surprisingly didn’t go down well. I remembered her glass black eyes narrowed. I smiled.

When I thought of Karl and Lorna, it was difficult for me not to refer to the Oedipus complex; she was always mothering him, and he lapped it up like an impressionable foetus. Cleaning up after him, blowing crumbs off his face more than kisses, telling him the do's and don’ts of table etiquette. She fed him like he was foie gras about to be splattered on a Parisian plate. She had a marvellous way for making a capable adult look embarrassingly incapable, so when I came into the room one time and saw her feeding him nipple shaped strawberries, I left bemused. That may explain why he wants her back, there would be no dirty washing crammed under the bed, less takeaways, less questionable smells, and more finger fed food.

Throughout the first year, I didn’t really connect with any girls, I was quite satisfied simply admiring their hypnotically, gyrating buttocks glide past me, but saw few faces I wanted to talk to. It’s not often I’ll talk to a girl first, unless I’m really attracted to her. And in the second year, I was too busy scrambling for good grades. But now in my third year, I think I deserve a little light relief amongst all the books, so I’m open to suggestions. Got to try a little I guess.

I picked up the phone and dialled Lorna. Twirling my fingers around the cord.