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well i never!..
The letter would be next and then Malacoda's last will and testament! Starving and desperate he shoved the paper into his mouth and with relish chewed, no chomped with profound glee upon the ball of paper. There was no poem, nothing except scribbles. He sat before the sheet of paper. Not even a tin of peas! Not a thing. There was nothing in the cupboards! The noise reverberated in his empty lacuna! His belly rumbled! He was hungry! He listened attentively to the footsteps until they became inaudible. Harold Langden closed the door upon the undercover cop.
Yes sir, answered Harold Langden subserviently.
Next time, I'll have to have a look around. You don't want to see me again. Just keep it down, stated the undercover cop haughtily.
Fine, said Langden, gesticulating, feigning elation. Bloody wonderful!
You sure everything is fine? They heard banging! The neighbors called, said the undercover cop incredulously, scanning with supercilious eyes behind Langden thinning frame. Right!
Honky dory! bellowed Langden ebulliently.
Everything fine here? inquired the undercover cop.
With audacity, with a pinch of boldness and if need be a lashings of lies, he knew how to handle the bill. With balderdash, he would answer the questions of the undercover cop. His belly with opprobrium growled obstreperously. One of Giacometti's walking men. He felt like a Greek kouros, nay, skin and bones was all he was. Langden wished that he had covered his torso. If the question arose pertaining to the presence of the undercover cop at his home it divagated to a question of whether or not Harold Langden could exist upon lettuce and lettuce alone. He was more ravenous than apprehensive and perplexed. It was an undercover cop. It amplified his juices! The knocking at the gates was symbolic it reaffirmed his hunger. This disturbance of the equanimity perturbed Harold Langden. There was a knock upon the door. His bowels were as mendacious as ever. I must piss, thought Harold Langden.
The television when vivified smelt of steak! Everybody was sitting down to eat meals worthy of Trimalchio. The adverts were all about food. The programs were all about food. Harold Langden couldn't even turn on the television.
With profound melancholy Harold Langden pulled Malacoda's last Will and Testament from the sweet smelling envelope.
Harold Langden remained sitting.
Harold Langden sighed.
All expenses were covered by his father.
The cadaver was sent airmail back to Wales on the 5th September.
His last words were that I should send you this last will and testament.
Dear Mr. Harold Langden I was asked to forward this last will and testament.
He opened the letter. The paper was acidulous. He had only licked the paper. He was not breaking the rules. Harold Langden licked the paper. Melon. And the aroma. It was the swirl of the Ps and Ts. The handwriting on the letter was ostensibly that of a lady. As the Postman courteously handed Harold Langden a special letter his belly with opprobrium growled piercingly. It mitigated his juices! It reaffirmed his hunger. The knocking at the gates was symbolic like in Macbeth. This disturbance of his peace upset him. There was a knock upon the door. Harold Langden inhaled ostentatiously and placed his pen upon the paper. He reminded himself that his life depended on him writing a poem, having the poem published, that his genius was advertised, and him offered a wonderful job. Harold Langden could not believe the frivolous way he was squandering paper. What a waste of paper.
His bowels were as mendacious as ever. I must piss, thought Harold Langden.
Harold Langden was perplexed.
It was not poetry! But it was not verse! Harold Langden was composing! Suddenly upon the paper his pen scribbled. Langden closed his eyes and opened his soul. But anything was worth a shot! Scary stuff! With verbatim his Wife had scribbled what the unknown dictated. Some erudite phantasmagoria! Yeats was aided by the unknown. His bowels were as mendacious as ever. I must piss, thought Harold Langden. Langden desired a poem, a poem that he could get published, a poem to advertise his genius! Penury was a bugger it mitigated the juices for poetry! He dreamed of a typewriter, a computer being completely out of his radar. A sheet of paper was before him and a pen was in his hand. Harold Langden was about to write. Harold Langden was in peril. Not having a job was killing him. The diet was killing him. A thinker! Harold Langden was not a visceral man; he was cerebral. Harold Langden was not obese, corpulent; he was just uncomfortable. To get a job Harold Langden would need to shed a few pounds. Harold Langden was in need of a job. Rotten to the core they were! The teeth were precarious. His teeth were few and far between. He had forgotten what it was like to chomp. He had forgotten what it was like to chomp upon an apple. Harold Langden could only consume lettuce. One meal a day diet. A strict diet. Harold Langden was on a diet.
I'm bloody starving! bemoaned Harold Langden piteously.
paul kavanagh was born in england 1971. he is happy. his wife is happy. together they are happy.