Oh, the folly of the rich and famous. Imagine if our lot got on a Morrissey I-can-write-a-novel kick… we stare off into the distance all wistful, like, and imagine such things…
I found this in my attic. It’s some kind of novel written by an iconic music star. I think it’s the future of literature; someone like, say, Penguin should publish it immediately. It’s only an excerpt because if I was to post the whole thing, this magazine would short-circuit in lyrical ecstasy.
Vince Clarke The Quiet One Out Of Erasure barrel-rolled through the bulbous, golden fields of vegan wheat, eyes gazing up at the English sky scattered with tea-stained clouds as if Mother Nature herself had been casting runes. “O to be free,” trilled Clarky Clarke, the words preciously careening into the air as if to intone “hark the canopy of the sky and tell me if this is a blue savannah song”. And what a song, the blue savannah song, the songiest of English songs.
Suddenly, Clarke thought of The Other One In Erasure, the one he calls PVC Andy because of his penchant for high-style attire and posturing costumes. In the secrecy of his mind, Clarke pictured PVC Andy on stage, song-entwining the manful microphone in lustful joy, his words step-sliding from his lyrical tongue into the frenzied and open ears of the quietly shouting audience who followed as pilgrims from English city to English city, o praise those who have tramped and trudged with every fibre of their bulbous being.
Clarky-Clarke-Clarke shook this thought from his blue savannah tea-stained mind, because for the first time in his three-score and half-score years, Clarke was alone and free. So he sang and sang until he murdered a scarecrow, thrashing and bashing with a cosy killer’s rake until, with deathblow upon deathblow, he rendered the straw man as lifeless as an adverbially proverbial, primordial dinosaur. “Take THAT, Andy, crusher of my freedom desires,” uttered Clarke in lustful, precocious voice, each flurry of battered straw a copulation of bulbous relief bursting into the reality of the air like a bride-thrown bouquet of metaphorical gladioli.
“Vince, why are you hitting that scarecrow with a rake?” came a sudden reply from Andy, who stood bulbous and unnoticed on the trampled carpet of vegan wheat that was the most wheatingly of English wheat. “Uh, nothing,” topspan Clarke, and they both left with Andy lecturing Clarke about leaving the rehearsal studio on his own, and if he wanted a little respect, next time he might want to put some trousers on, the bulbous blue savannah berk.
