Sunday, January 21, 2007

The Good Humour Man

They say never get back with your exes, but he was special when I was so small. Even now I need to recognize it and forcibly tell the bile not to rise. I get annoyed over nothing when the good humour man comes to visit in his singing truck. I can get candied eyeballs on a string, melancholy milkshakes, a turbulent choleric smoothie, or my favourite, a long, thick, dildo dipped in black bile and served ice cold covered with nuts. That’s good eatin and cheap, though the cost is high. I pay him in tears when the bells ring from his dashboard. His sympathy shines false through gold teeth but I buy his candy anyway because he is older than me and his sweeties are comfort itself.

His jangling bells alert me to his presence on my street and I can choose at least how to manifest my destiny. With toppings. All the wrappings sparkle and the cones are all sleek with thick saliva. He frightens me, so I love him.

I can easily see him on the blue man’s road. They shouldn’t be friends, but isn’t that always the way? You think you’ve left someone for good and bang, you find them six months later, in bed with the new one, the one who wouldn’t betray you. Bacon would line the sidewalk, sizzling, maple meat candy. His bells could easily jangle in chorus with the hoary toads. His chain gang starts with braces and ends with a handcuff on your ankle. You sugarcoat your toes before you dip them in the river and the nibbly fish come to trim your callouses down. They wear away the memory of the road from your feet, so they bleed easily when you walk back across the gravel to your path. It’s another lonely place where the hope of rescue must come with the terror of meeting the next killer. I figured on that game only a short while in, so I grew a tail and dove as far as I could below the algae to the tiniest tributary I have ever seen. The toads could never squeeze in here, but I made it past them to the clean, sexy, safe smelling liquid and surfaced in quite a different place.