Sunday 15 November 2015

Letters from the Habsburg dynasty, part 3: Who is Rory?


One morning I came home to find a postcard in an envelope in my letterbox.

"Hi chucky!
I is in (Spain) Catalonia!
Milk's got the details.
I will send you more of
'Rory's life with me' later.
Meanwhile, I've contacted a
bone grinding fever from some
                             local jazz
ARTURO BIZZARRO"

In the envelope, there was also a poem.
Arthur, you sent me a poem! From Spain!
I liked it so much that I read it out to Loaf.
Loaf said it wasn't a poem, it was a Samuel Beckett play.
Then we named one of the pillars in the room we use for the workshop after Rory.
Here is your poem, Arthur.
Here we go.

Rory! Where are my shoes?
They're faking it
in the rain.
Blouse?
Getting deep fried,
in baby oil.
Rory, it is spring,
isn't it?
Still is.
I am tired of potatoes.
Rory, where is my car?
You sold it to the cab driver.
Alright, RORY.
I'll go get my
Suitcase.
... YOu sold it wiTH THE CAR
RORY! Where is the DOOR?

Rory, I feel better
Today.
Are you with me?
xxx
Rory. Why do you
sleep so
much?
You KNOW IT'S
Suspicious.
xxx
Rory, where is my hat?
Behing the mirror.
Gloves?
The Grocer is holding
them for you.
Rory, where is my brush?
You've not used it
for a while...
ThankYou Rory.
Where is it?
It's become part of
a pigeon's nest.













.¦. Your drink
is in your hand.
Rory, do I make you worried?
Yes. CONSTANTLY.
Is the street wet?
We can't see the street
from this balcony.
Do you like my pension,
RORY?
We like everything
WE ARE GIVEN.
We will set off in the
NIGHT
After a long
SLEEP
just as YOU like it.
YOU dON'T KNOW
WHAT I like.
HOW FAR
are you willing
to go,
Rory?
As far as the next room.

x

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