man with gun

*

 

Man with gun enters room. Fully grown, mature, adult, man with beard, known to friends simply as ‘that man with the gun.’ Everyone immediately acknowledges man and gun, exchanging formalities such as – Good to see you man, it’s been too long, and nice gun bro, where did you get it? Man with gun stands by television, picks up remote in one hand whilst still carrying gun in the other. Points remote at television. ‘Whatever you do, don’t get them mixed up!’ I joked in an attempt to make him approve of me slightly more, so as to lessen the hopefully very slim chance that he might use his gun on me for whatever reason.

He flicks through TV Guide and finds show about monster trucks. Really big, massive, nasty TRUCKS like MONSTERS with really big, massive wheels crushing things forever, on camera. I start to wonder why man thinks it is necessary to carry large, metal gun, possibly loaded and with bullets. Maybe man thinks of gun as fashion accessory, like bracelet or watch. Maybe man feels like 007 with gun. Maybe the ladies are into the whole gun-thing…

 

**

 

Man with gun wears leather jacket inside and likes to talk about politics and football, sometimes momentarily making people forget the incontrovertible fact that he is still definitely, 100% in possession of deadly weapon, more specifically; gun. Everyone agrees strongly with man’s opinions, no matter how extreme or uninteresting, partly because man with gun is perceived as edgy and likeable, partly through fear of being shot with gun. Friend Steve asks man when he got gun and man says that he has had it ever since man was child. Man changes subject and mentions that he enjoys ice skating. Friend Steve asks if he skates with gun in hand and he says yes, obviously. It can’t be easy, on ice with big heavy, metal gun in hand, friend Steve says. Man comes out with, it’s actually a lot easier than you might think, holding a gun at the rink. Haahaa very lyrical. I carry on thinking about why man feels urge to be constantly armed with gun and think maybe gun is an anxiety-thing. Life can be very stressful for most people and maybe carrying gun just takes edge off. Friend Steve then says (quite sycophantically) “I can’t get over how cool that gun looks on you man. It really suits you. Damn I wish I could pull that one off.”

“Thanks dude” the man replies. A very long silence, then-

“So… shot anyone good lately?”

 

***

 

Man with gun’s wife comes into the room and sits on man’s lap then asks, “how are you both?”

“Fine thanks.”

Man puts arms round wife’s waist and holds gun with both hands pointing forwards, forefinger relaxing on trigger. He says they’ve been together for six years now, and got married the year before. He opens up wedding album on mobile phone and shows us endless series of photos taken somewhere in France of man, wife and gun together in state of perfect contentment. Man sheds tear whilst showing photo of man kissing bride at altar with left hand on wife’s cheek and right hand holding gun by side. Emotional Friend Steve also sheds tear.

I’ve had many rum and cokes at this point and can’t really hold it in any longer so I ask man, “this might seem like a personal question, and you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to. But when you both…you know… in the bedroom…together,” I point at gun “does the gun stay or…?”

“Yes that is very personal and actually quite rude,” wife nods head as answer, “and I’d also like to add that I may have a gun, but other than that I’m just a normal human being like everybody else. A human being with a job who likes to do things like watch television programmes about cars, spend time with my wife and children and have a beer at the weekends with friends. Why does the conversation always have to be about the fricking gun? This does NOT define me!” Man with gun is now red-faced and angry.

“You’re not going to shoot us are you?”

 

****

 

Man with gun has hair played with by wife whilst man gulps large mouthful of whiskey with grimace. “They aren’t trying to upset you honey. Don’t make a big deal out of it. The whole gun thing is just a bit unusual for most people at first, that’s all.”

“It’s fine. We can just draw a line under it now. Honestly.”

Friend Steve leaves room.

Big, massive MONSTER TRUCKS jumping off bales of hay and smashing into each other to loud AMERICAN ROCK MUSIC nobody knows. Friend Steve casually comes back into room in with large carving knife in hand, pointing downwards like dagger, sits down and scrolls through social media on mobile phone whilst humming. Everybody looks over and sighs. Man with gun scowls.

“Put the knife away Steve you loser.”

 

The Fuckist Manifesto

Fuckism is pessimistic.

The World is Fucked. We acknowledge that those who have subscribed to the toxic platitudes fed to them by an ambivalent and grey society, crafted by the preposterous, have sacrificed themselves wilfully. Their sordid conventions of hematite weigh them down from head to toe until all that remains of them are condensed blobs on the pavement. We Fuckists must learn to tread carefully and make sure we don’t acquire the same blobby feet and aura of pedestrian NOTHINGNESS.

Fuckism is our escape from these abhorrent pavements, you will see…

Our style is extravagant because life is also extravagant (unless it is not worth living). Our poetry is honest, but also delusive and MEANINGLESS. Whilst lying in art is compulsory, pretence is an abomination. We do not pretend. Art is the one thing that can both echo our despair and deliver us from it; it cannot be debased with pretence. Fuckism is laced with FARCICAL DESPAIR.

Fuckism isn’t premeditated. It just happened at some point.

Fuckist poetry will never be therapy. It will never be self-indulgence. It will never be self-gratifying. Fuckism is new rays of light falling ironically onto newly found corners of the ABYSS of obscurity. Fuckism is the noble sigh.

Fuckism does not care about literary theory. Though our poems oftentimes be chaste and beautiful in form, like the souls who crafted them.

Fuckism is a lurid torch shining ASPEROUS FUCKISM everywhere; projecting reality to those who are in need of a Fuckist approach to shatter their anxieties and lack of clarity in the broken world of mediocrity and suffering in which they hopelessly exist.

Our poetry is a JOKE.

We are British but that is not our fault. Fuckism is British. Fuckism loves comedy. Fuckism loves poetry. Fuckism loves what is right and obscure.

We share our misery, inject it with Fuckist passion and tranquilize the present.

Fuckism is optimistic.

Poetry: A Caution

Caution: Do not write a boring or sentimental poem.

Caution: Do not use a word processor unless your fountain pen has broken.

Caution: Do not write on papyrus or about papyrus.

Caution: Do not applaud bad poets because they tried.

Caution: Do not read your poem in a voice like you are slowly dying.

Caution: Do not turn up to a spoken word night, read your own mindlessly

self-indulgent verse with unsolicited pride then leave without realising

how much of a cunt you are.

Caution: Do not write a poem without including death at least twice.

Caution: Death.

Caution: Do not read poems about sexuality or gender politics unless you

are convinced you are performing to a group of open-minded fascists. 

Caution: Do not address your poem to the sky.

Caution: Do not address a poem to you unless you want to address me personally.

Caution: Free verse is a bit shit really.

Caution: Do not pretend you ever understand poetry.

Caution: Do not write poetry.