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Ruminations on Rodents

Imagery of valves opening or shutting, whichever sounds sexier.

Piss dripping off the chin of an old lady.

A tower shrouded in silk, moistened at the tip.

Sweet scents of sweat; the Sensual come comes, hither and thither, in your nethers.

Prickly rosebush. Entangled all up in it, without a semblance of poise,

A mouse, trapped. Wriggling and trapped.

It has no poise.

It can’t get out.

Screaming in pain, ‘WEEEEEEEEEEEE!’

And it runs off the chin of an old lady.

 

I hear “Four Seasons” playing.

Play amongst the leaves, dear departed mouse. It is now your Autumn.

Your swansong.

Eine Kleine Mausmusik.

I will stamp the contemptuous life of any mice under the leaves.

No wonder it’s crunchy underfoot.

I wander above them, trying my best to be happy.

“WHY AM I HAPPINESS WHEN MOUSES ARE SADNESS???”

I have no tiny coffins for their flatpack bodies.

 

To me. To you. Carry that flatpack furniture.

I gave up watching Chucklevision. I have nothing to see. No laughter to feel.

Paul and Barry.

Pall and bearer.

Mouses in their coffins. They have no need to run from farmers now.

They have no need to run from their true selves now. They do not have to look themselves in their cute little eyes and feel unworthy.

Unworthy to be called rodent.

Ashamed to be called mouse.

Their big cousins cannot sneer anymore.

“What can you bench these days, Mickey?”

“Not as much as YOU, Roland. You will always be bigger and stronger than me.”

“That’s correct.”

Modern-day Spartans. Born and raised in sewers. Gentle giants.

Born and raised in labs. Made to run mazes. Diseased cretins.

They come to take. They come to take. They come to take.

“Take the biscuit if you ask me.”
“What does?”
“These rats you see nowadays.”

“Eh? What you on about?”
“The rats. They’re everywhere. On every street corner now I see a rat. They’re so un-fucking-civilised and always wanting the shirt off your back. I remember when all we had was mice.”
“Ah yes, mouses yes. They were a polite bunch.”
“Exactly. They’d be running about nearby but never once demand you give them anything. And what’s more, they didn’t mind if you stamped their final breath out of their tiny little lungs. They were glad of it, if anything.”
“Oh, more than glad, they were. More often than not they’d egg me on. Get in a nice tight circle round my feet and kindly request to become pulp.”

“They were…”

“They were…”

Mouses.
 

 

 

 

 

 

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Ben McElroy